The cab drove away with a wheeze, leaving Ayla standing alone in front of Bellmore House.
It loomed like a memory no one wanted to claim—tall, tired, and utterly lifeless. The trees around it were bare, their branches clawing at gray skies. Fog curled along the cracked stone path like something alive.
Ayla clutched her suitcase tighter. This is supposed to be a fresh start.
Her mother stood by the door, already unlocking it. "Come on, Ayla. It's colder here than I expected."
She followed wordlessly. The house didn't creak when they stepped in—it breathed. The air inside was damp and old, like a room that hadn't been opened in centuries. Wallpaper peeled in long strips. Cobwebs were untouched. And the light... didn't quite reach the corners.
"It'll be nice," her mother said, hanging her coat with an unsettling calm. "Peaceful. No more city noise. You can hear yourself think here."
Ayla didn't want to hear herself think. All she could think about was her dad. Gone two years now. Officially "missing in action" after a snowy hiking trip. Unofficially? Her mother never talked about him again.
She walked through the halls, her footsteps muffled. No echo. That was the first weird thing. Every house echoed a little, didn't it?
She found her room upstairs. Dusty but big. At the far end of the hallway was a single door—painted black, strange and out of place. It had three thick locks across it.
What's behind there?
At dinner, she asked.
Her mother didn't look up from her tea. "That door's always been locked. There's nothing inside. Don't waste your time."
Ayla didn't believe her.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
Something felt… off. The air was too still. No hum of electricity. No outside noise. Just the sound of her own breath.
Then—
A whisper.
So soft she almost missed it.
> "Ayla…"
She sat bolt upright.
The sound was coming from the hallway.
She crept to her door and opened it. The corridor was dark, only moonlight painting the floors.
> "Ayla… it's me…"
Her eyes shot to the locked door. The black one.
She backed away slowly and shut her door again. Her hands were shaking.
It was just a dream. Just my mind messing with me.
But it wasn't.
---
The whispers came every night.
Always around 2:13 AM.
Always saying her name.
And then, four nights in, she heard something else.
> "It's Dad. Ayla, help me…"
Her blood ran cold.
She stood frozen, unable to breathe. She hadn't heard that voice in two years.
The next morning, she confronted her mother.
"You said that door's always been locked. Then why do I hear whispers from it?"
Her mother gave her a tight-lipped smile. "You're just having stress dreams, love. It's a new place. The house is old. Pipes make noises. The brain invents things."
Ayla leaned in. "The voice says it's Dad."
Silence.
Her mother's smile didn't falter, but her eyes… they hardened.
"I think you need rest. Don't dwell on ghosts."
---
Ayla didn't rest.
Instead, she explored the house during the day, looking for answers. Eventually, she found the attic ladder hidden in the laundry room ceiling.
Upstairs, it was freezing.
Boxes rotted in corners. Broken picture frames. A child's rocking horse that creaked even though the air was still.
She found the journal tucked beneath an old chest. Dust clung to it like the house didn't want to let go.
On the first page:
Thomas Faulkner. Her father.
The early entries were calm. Observations about the house. Odd drafts. Missing items.
Then they spiraled.
> "The black door wasn't here when we moved in."
"I heard whispering. It knew my name."
"She made a deal. I don't know who she is anymore."
"The room is hungry. I locked it in. But it still speaks."
"Don't trust her. She's not your mother anymore."
Ayla dropped the journal. Her breath hitched.
Behind her, something creaked.
The attic door slammed shut.
---
That night, the voice returned.
Stronger.
> "She locked me in. It wasn't her fault. She thought she was saving us."
Ayla pressed her ear to the black door. It was cold—ice cold.
The voice was clearer than ever.
> "I'm here. Ayla, please. I'm still here."
The door vibrated under her hand like something inside was moving.
Then the locks clicked. Once. Twice.
Ayla backed away, heart hammering.
The last lock turned slowly with a metallic clunk.
The door creaked open two inches.
Inside, pitch darkness.
And a soft voice, not her father's, said:
> "You finally heard me."
---
TO BE CONTINUED…